Et in Alagaësia ego
by Somigliana
Summary: I am also in Alagaësia. Possible snapshots of the past, present, and future.


**Et in Alagaësia ego**

By Somigliana

_Snapshots of past, present, future_

* * *

Eragon groaned softly as he reached his quarters in the elf-city of Ellesméra. After his attacks yesterday, his body had been left aching and tender; this morning's Rimgar had intensified that ache to a throbbing intensity that made him nauseous. Saphira landed with a bump that made their tree-top accommodations sway slightly.

Outside, he heard Islandzadí's raven, Blagden, croak, "Wyrda, wyrda!" as he flew past.

Eragon scowled. With his aching, useless body, and his aching, useless heart, fate had a nasty sense of irony indeed.

_Eragon. _Saphira's voice intruded into his self-pity. _Destiny is a strange thing ... and I am here with you._

Eragon smiled slightly at his dragon and nodded. It was inevitable that their destiny would arrive.

* * *

Eragon's fingers dangled off the edge of the raft and skimmed through the cool, clear waters of the Gaena River, en route towards Ardwen Lake, and ultimately, Ellesméra. The canopied branches of Du Weldenvarden filtered the light in dappled patches, reflecting off Saphira's scales in myriad sparkling blue lights.

On a whim, Eragon toed off his boots and socks and then dipped his toes into the water. He heard Saphira chuckle in his mind before she dipped her scaled head under the water and powered ahead a bit, a blurred streak of brilliant blue.

Eragon turned his head, intending to watch Arya surreptitiously, when he noticed Orik looking at his feet. He raised his eyebrows and grinned. "Yes, ten toes," he said with amusement at the morbid fascination of the fourteen-toed dwarf.

* * *

Saphira nuzzled Eragon with her snout, perfectly in tune with her Rider's emotions.

_You have to block it out for now, little one,_ she said gently, a wealth of understanding in her mental tones. You have to focus on defeating Galbatorix and his Empire.

"I know," he said quietly, swallowing and then steeled himself — he truly did want to stop obsessing over the elf Princess, but he found his thoughts drawn to her, especially when she was avoiding him, slipping elusively into the shadows at his every approach.

With renewed resolution, he tucked his unrequited feelings for Arya behind a firm mental barrier, and then he and Saphira made their way down to Oromis and Gleadr to continue their training.

* * *

Eragon gazed across the reddish glow of the Burning Plains, taking in the carnage of the battlefield. A frown etched his elfish features, making him look more human than since the dragons had bestowed their gift.

His heart was heavy - the battle won, but the war just beginning. The searing ache of his brother's betrayal burned in his heart and his mind. The knowledge that Murtagh was now the enemy was leaden.

Saphira's scales glittered purple in the surreal, reflected light. _Come, little one,_ she said quietly, _let's fly for a while._

They flew south, soared across the coastline of Surda and over the ocean. The glittering blue sea stretched to the horizon, seemingly endless. Almost like the impossible tasks that faced them now; defeating the Ra'zac and Galbatorix.

"Let's turn back, Saphira," he said grimly. "The Varden need us, Roran needs us. We need to prepare."

* * *

Eragon sat back in the saddle lazily and listened to Orik and Saphira ask each other riddles. It filled the hours of the long flight from Ellesméra to Surda and distracted him from the fact that he'd see Arya in Aberon soon.

"What's the score today?" he asked, watching the almost hypnotic beat of Saphira's wings through lazy eyes.

Saphira snorted and a wisp of smoke drifted over Eragon and the dwarf, shredded by the streaming wind a moment later. Eragon pressed his lips together with amusement as Orik confirmed his suspicions.

"Ah, two for me and zero for Bjartskular!"

* * *

Now that Eragon has learnt to open his consciousness to his environment, he does not eat meat any longer. Now he understands what was once foreign the first time he'd observed Arya eat.

He bites into a sweet peach and chews, grinning at his soul's other half. _So, no more meat then?_ Saphira asks, resting her snout on her front talons.

Eragon nods. _I didn't believe Oromis when he told me that it would be so._

Saphira chuckles. _Togira Ikonoka is wise indeed,_ she observes.

Eragon rubs at a bruise on his shin, grimacing slightly. _And a slave driver, too._

* * *

Calling Saphira blue would be like calling the sun yellow and neglecting the myriad spectrum of colours of a sunset, or calling the Spine green and neglecting to detail the magnificence of the Iqualda Falls.

Perhaps, because she was his dragon and he her Shur'tugal, he was understandably biased, but truly, her scales shimmered myriad shades of blue in shifting light.

From the moment she'd hatched from her egg, chosen him, given him the gedwëy ignasia, he'd been enthralled, his destiny set in motion, intertwined with hers.

* * *

Eragon ducked under Vanir's sword as the elf whipped his blade around. He heard the metallic whine and the whipping of disturbed air far too close to his head. Ignoring the burning pain that began to sear up the scar on his back, he straightened and spun around to counter-attack.

He winced at the grating of metal as Zar'roc struck Vanir's sword in a shower of magical sparks along the magic-dulled edges. The blow sent reverberations up his arm, and his sword dropped to the ground from numb fingers.

Vanir smirked and lifted his sword to Eragon's throat. "Dead again, Shadeslayer." Usually his name was spoken with reverence and awe. Vanir's tone dripped with condescension. He didn't think that Eragon deserved to be a Shur'tugal.

Eragon struggled to hold his tongue as he had promised Oromis. He stepped back from the sword's tip and retrieved Zar'roc, then quietly lifted his sword for another round.

* * *

Her horse stamped impatiently, snorting white puffs of condensation in the icy dusk. She pulled her cloak around her more tightly and crossed her arms over her chest, glancing around nervously. Tears glittered in her eyes; she despaired that he would trust enough to meet with her.

When a hand closed on her shoulder, she gasped and whirled on the spot. His face was hooded, but she breathed a sigh of relief as he dropped his iron-clad shields for a moment, reassuring her with his familiar presence. It had been so long. She had missed him far more than she'd cared to admit to herself. "Brom," she murmured.

He touched a fingertip to her cheek, where a bruise lingered, yellow-indigo in its ugliness. "Selena. Are you sure?"

She nodded, and a tear streaked down her cheek and curled at her jaw.

Brom pushed his hood back slightly. He had aged since she'd seen him last – there was a hardness to his features, a set to his jaw, and silver threading his beard. "You will need to swear it in the ancient language and hide the truth from Morzan."

Her voice was grim and determined. "I know."

* * *

She gazed across the murmuring crowd, drawn to the man who stood at the back, observing quietly. His serious eyes met hers, and she felt her heart skip, acknowledging the visceral attraction she felt for him – both physical and emotional. Her resolve solidified – her choice was the right one.

The last stragglers arrived, and the doors were barred. Brom walked through the crowd towards her – the rebels stepped aside deferentially, clearing his path. A hush rippled through the room as he turned to face the Varden. He stood a foot from her, but she was aware of his aura, his comforting presence.

"To defeat Gabatorix and the Forsworn, we need magicians. Selena is well-trained in the use of magic." Brom gestured for her to begin.

Yes, Morzan had taught her magic, and she would turn it on him, she thought resolutely. Selena took a step forward, pressing against the heavy scrutiny. "I will select those who have the ability for magic," she announced. "We will lead the Riders and dark magicians along a wandering path of confusion." Passion wound into her tone as she took control of her life. "We will be the Du Vrangr Gata, and their downfall!"

* * *

"Once upon a time –"

"In a land not so far away –" his granddaughter chimed in, her voice as clear as a bell.

He smiled indulgently. "Oh, alright. Once upon a time in this very land ... the fair Alagaësia –"

"I'm going to be Queen of Alagaësia some day, you know, Grandpa. Because Garrow can't be King, because he's a Rider, and Riders are s'posed to be partial," she said knowingly.

Roran nodded and smoothed a hand over her coppery hair. "You'll make a beautiful Queen," he told her. She took after Katrina in looks, as well as having a similar giving spirit.

"Now, where was I?" Roran frowned, pretending to scratch his head.

"In fair Alagaësia," she intoned.

"Right. Right. Once upon a time in fair Alagaësia, a dragon-less Rider and his secret love stood on a hilltop, gazing out over the long-lost city of Illirea –"

"Uru'baen,"

Roran rolled his eyes. "Well, that's what Galbasnotix called it, anyway." She giggled, as he'd intended. "The Rider asked his love to make a wish, and she wished that the land would be free, and that they would find a new generation of Riders."

"Uncle Eragon!" she exclaimed.

"Aye."

* * *

He tucked the midnight lily behind her ear. "A most unworthy adornment to your beauty, Arya Dröttning," he murmured, stepping closer to pull her into an embrace.

"It is perfect. The loveliest flower I have ever seen," she replied, sighing softly as his lips brushed the curve of her shoulder. "Thank you, Faolin."

Elegant fingers caressed her right shoulder blade. "You have decided?" he asked, lifting his head to look at her with serious eyes.

"Yes. I will take the yawe."

"Then I will go with you."

* * *

He is so tired. His mind is numb. Numb from patching the cracks that spread (and spread, and grow) in the wall. His hands bleed – the wall is rust-red where he climbed, but he is tired (so tired) now. His chest is heaving as he leans against the wall, and the wall feels paper-thin and brittle and fragile. He can hear their twin finger-nails scratching, picking at the cracks, widening the cracks, breaking his wall. His limbs are too leaden to turn and fix the breach that horse-tails, splays and navigates inexorably, weakening the wall until it sways for an impossibly long moment, then crumbles. Ash and dust and blood coat his face as he lifts his hands to his face and screams - shattering screams that drown out the laughter that echoes in the ruins of his mind.

* * *

Victory is tinged orange, tainted blood-red, seared black with grief. The dwarves – usually the most raucous in celebrating victory – are subdued and shell-shocked, mourning their King.

Eragon steps from Nasauda's busy pavilion into the hazy dusk. He sees her silhouette, lithe in the whispering smoke, and he ignores the warning that echoes in his mind. _Little one, no..._

She draws him like a Siren, and he is unable to resist her lure. "Arya Svit-kona," he murmurs, unable to stop from putting a hand to her elbow, standing close to inhale her exotic scent.

She whips around, wrenches her arm away – her snarl of anger alien to serene elfish features. "Will you never learn, Eragon?"

And again – three times now – he turns, heartbroken. His love corrodes in the sulphurous air.

* * *

He rips the books from the shelf – they fall to the ground, spines cracked. No secrets bleed from torn pages. He snarls. The edge of his vision is blood.

"Mamma! I want her ... I want my mamma!"

His child's insistent screams darken his rage crimson, and in his frenzy, he draws Zar'roc and hurls it towards the wailing brat. The screams don't stop, only intensify, clawing at his boiling fury.

He stops to pick up his blade. Blood shines wetly on its ruby edge.

"Heal him," he commands the nanny.

He could have healed with two words, yet he strides out – revenge on the mother exacted on the son.

* * *

A/N: Written for a variety of prompts at the livejournal community, writinggame.


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